


Therapy

by thelogicalloganipus (awkwardkermitfrog)



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, TW Disassociation, tw depersonalization, tw mention of sexual assault, tw suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 19:27:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15758178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkwardkermitfrog/pseuds/thelogicalloganipus
Summary: Wow, I haven't written in a looooong time. I hope you guys enjoy this. Kind of a vent fic. This fic is... kind of about the things I'm experiencing lately. And actually, have been for a long time, but... well... yeah. Why am I always projecting myself onto Virgil? I don't know.Warnings: mention of sexual assault, discussion of suicidal ideation, depersonalization, derealization, discussion of PTSD, anxiety, depression, therapy, hospital setting, disassociation





	Therapy

_ Name: Virgil S. Haddaway.  _

_ Age: 27. _

_ Gender: M _

_ Family history: No history of depression or other mental illnesses; family history of heart disease, diabetes _

_ Current medical conditions: hypoglycemia, GERD, anxiety, possible major depressive episode  _

_ Reason for admission: Client says that he has undergone a traumatic event. Reports delusional thinking such as thinking he “does not have bones in his skin”, does not “believe glass is real”. Seems detached emotionally, possible depression. Severe dissociative symptoms. Possible schizoid personality disorder/borderline personality disorder / post traumatic stress disorder. Further evaluation required.  _

 

_ \----------------------------------------------------------------------------------- _

  
  


“Good morning.” 

I glance at the smiling receptionist and nod without smiling in return.  _ It’s her job to be polite. She doesn’t actually like you. _ I shrug my shoulders, pulling my sweatshirt further down my sleeves. 

“I’m here for… uh… the adult group? The… therapy... thing?” I read her name tag - Susan Smith - and observed her desk area. It is littered with tiny nicknacks, personal items, photographs. All things to remind her that she has someone to go home to at the end of the work day. 

“Yes, thank you. If you have a seat you and the rest of the group will be called back shortly.” Susan smiles again, and I try for a second to smile back before giving up and turning to the lobby. 

The first thing I notice is the smell, like something antiseptic.  _ I’m in a hospital again. _ The next thing I notice is how far the walls seemed from the people sitting in front of them, like they are miles apart from each other, as if the shadows the fall are false, painted on. I take a deep breath and find myself sitting in one of many chairs by a stack of magazines and other reading material. Across from me, I notice a child with her mother reading  _ Highlights _ , a woman chewing on her braid, and a young man wearing, of all things, a blue tie. I take a deep breath and wait. 

“Adult group?” 

I look up from my phone; fifteen minutes have gone by. The room is now much fuller, with young men and women, children, and some older men and women. I find myself standing, then filing in down a hallway, while an older man in front of a group of us opened special doors with keys. There seemed to be offices everywhere, and, to my surprise, a cafeteria in which some men and women sit in scrubs.  _ That’s where the hospitalized people are.  _ I swallow.

I watch as we are led finally into an office, where chairs are set in a circle. Everyone who has walked down the hallway with me seems to know exactly where they should sit, leaving one chair open. A chair for me. 

I sit.

“Okay, so we have a new person here with us today, so… let’s go over the group rules.” The man leading the group sits in a chair by a desk and turns to me. His face is friendly, wrinkled, and a bit stern. “I don’t know if you know this, but you don’t have to call me Dr. Allan or anything. You can just call me Rob.”

“Or Robbie.” A man next to me giggles, and the rest of the group laughs too. I look around wildly, eyes darting from group member to group member. I feel confused. 

“Yes, or Robbie.” The man smiles and winks. My eyes widen a moment before I find that my body is drift, already, away from the chair and out into the parking lot. “So.. the rules… Everything is confidential, of course…” 

I nod. Swallow. Tune out. 

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
  


“Hey!”

I sigh quietly, looking at my roommate on the couch, looking at the video game he’s playing. “Hey.”

“How’re you doing?” 

I shake my head. “Uh. Yeah. I dunno.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” He adjusts his sitting, turning to the game, as I walk around the couch and sit in the chair next to him. 

“New GTA?” I tilt my head, watching as a figure on the screen rides a small hovercraft over a city.

“This is GTA online.” I look at his face, listen to the happy tone in his voice, and look back at the game. The endless hours of fulfilling mission after mission, pointless objective after pointless objective. A game without purpose. “It’s really fun.”

“Huh.” I nod, gently rubbing my hand on the edge of the couch. “Sounds cool.”

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
  


“What is up you beautiful bastards? Hope you’re having a  _ fantastic  _ Monday! Welcome back to the Philip DeFranco Show, and let’s just jump into it! And the first thing we’re going to talk about today is-” 

My fingers run along my wall, occasionally scratching the old paint, trying to be quiet. I remembered asking my roommate, Larry, before if I was too loud for him when I watched television. He had told me that he often couldn’t tell I was home. 

“I exist.” I whisper, hand walking up the wall and down again, pulling tiny pieces of paint under my fingernails. “I’m real.”

The newscast continues to play in the background, and I continue to feel the pillow below me gradually soaks with tears.

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
  


“You’re awfully quiet today, Logan. Do you want to tell us what’s going on?” Rob leans forward, looking at Logan sternly. 

“Nothing is ‘going on’. I am in an optimal mood and state of health.” Logan does not move, but instead sits stiffly with his arms crossed, looking at the floor somewhere around my shoe.

“Usually you have more comments to offer during group. You like to correct people. Why haven’t you been doing that today? Are you feeling anxious?” Rob sighs and leans back. “You know I’m going to keep prodding you. You’re here to talk about things, not mask things with your brain.”

An older woman next to Logan snickers, but then looks away. “He’s just upset that we’re going to get out of group and they won’t have bananas in the Day Room.” 

The whole group laughs around me, and I shrink further into the plastic upholstery. After a moment, it quiets again, and all eyes are again on Logan, who does not look up from the area of the ground around my shoe. I wonder if he had laughed and I just hadn’t noticed it. 

“I am… unsure of my purpose.” Logan’s shoulders stiffen further, somehow, and I watch him draw his legs closer into his chair. “I do not see the reasoning for me continuing to attend this program. I am not as… severe as some members of the group.” 

He glances, for a split second, at me. My eyes shoot the window.  _ The cars outside today are red-white-blue-white-yellow-green. The cars outside today are red-white-blue-white-yellow-green.  _

“Logan, this isn’t a comparison game. You wouldn’t have been admitted to this program if you didn’t need to be here.” A young man in a blue shirt says happily. I struggle to remember his name. _ Patrick? _ “Not just anyone gets into a group like this.”

“Yes, but, I wonder truly if I am taking away time from someone who needs it more.” 

I feel a pang in my chest and bite my cheek so hard I can feel the indent. 

“That’s always possible. There’s always going to be someone who has it worse than you. And you’re always going to have it worse than someone else. That’s just how life works. What happened to you is already bad enough - you don’t need some new, more awful thing to happen to you in order to be here.” Rob looks at Logan intently, at the way he clenches his jaw, but continues. “That’s not how this process works.”

Logan nods. I look at him, piqued with new curiosity. I can’t think of a bad thing that could have happened to this man. I was not here when he told us his story. 

I can’t bring myself to ask. 

“Does that make sense?” Rob watches Logan as his leg begins to twitch. 

“Yes.” He nods, still stiff, leg shaking slightly. “It does. I suppose it is an error in my thinking patterns to believe that I do not deserve wellness.”

“Yes. That’s a cognitive distortion. Does everyone know what those are?” Rob turns around the group. A few people nod. Most people don’t respond. “It means a  _ thinking error _ . Logan, you minimizing your trauma - that is a thinking error. This means you are not seeing it as being as important to you as it is.” 

I curl my legs in, swallow something crawling up my throat.  _ The cars outside today are red-white-blue-white-yellow-green. Red-white-blue-white-yellow-green. _

“What do you think about that, Virgil?” 

_ The cars outside today are red-white-blue-white-yellow-green. _

“Virgil?”

_ The cars outside today are red-white-blue-white-yellow-green.  _

“What do you think about the idea of someone minimizing trauma?” 

_ The cars outside today are red-blue-white- no. No.  _

“Virgil, are you here with us?”

Someone touches my arm. I look up to see Rob pulling my fingernails away from the edge of the chair, firmly gripping my wrist. I look around the group, and bring my hand back to my lap. Rob takes a deep breath. 

“Virgil, part of the thing about group therapy is talking about what you’re feeling.” 

I nod. 

“Today’s not the day, huh?” 

My eyes begin to find animals in the carpet. I shake  my head.

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
  


_ Session Notes for 7/20/18: Virgil seems heavily withdrawn from reality, wishes to live in a private world; distances fears and anxieties with disassociation; possible self injurious behavior but none yet reported by patient; delusional thinking persistent; reports feeling as if he is asleep or in a dream. Refuses to discuss/acknowledge trauma mentioned in hospital report. Possible hospitalization may be needed; medication recommended. _

 

_ \---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- _

  
  


There are sixty-eight books in the room where group is held.

There are six magnets on the right cabinet and four on the left.

On the top shelf there is one plant and four nicknacks of various shapes, sizes, and tastefulness. Above this sit several diplomas, all from Buckingham University. I have no idea where this college is located, or how long it took Rob to earn all of these degrees, but they look very official. 

I wonder if Rob ever reads the books on his shelves, or if he, like me, keeps books around as a child would keep a teddy bear. 

There is one computer. It has two monitors.

There is another shelf. On this shelf are several toys and things to play with. I assume Rob does sessions with children as well as adults. On the bottom shelf are figures for the California Raisin Band, an ancient advertising mascot I remember seeing on television as a child. I don’t remember what they advertised. 

Today, when Rob asks me if I’m there with them, my body is far away from me. Robotic. I nod because it’s what is expected. I have no idea if it’s true. Someone seems to take over my body as I float into the ceiling. The me talking talks about video games, my parents, my favorite television shows. The real me drifts and discovers that there are four pigeons on the roof, and one of them is lucky enough to have found a cheeseburger. 

Or I imagine that’s what’s happening on the roof anyway. 

“Why don’t you tell the rest of the group why you’re here?” Rob leans towards me. He isn’t threatening. He’s kind, and somehow that’s worse. “I think it’s about time we do that. No one is going to judge you here.” 

I begin to rub my left wrist with my thumb and take a deep breath. I float farther away. Above the city. The me that is left in the room responds: “I don’t know how to talk about it. I feel like I’ve lost my mind.” 

“Why do you feel like you’ve lost your mind?” 

The young man in the blue shirt is looking at me intently. I’m trying to remember his name. 

“Could you describe that a bit more?” 

I take a deep breath. My heart hammers. I float into the clouds, away from the tears that are gradually spilling onto my shaking face. “No. I can’t.”

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

I scroll through Instagram, thoughtless, wondering if my fingers are really touching the screen at all, or if there’s a layer between me and the rest of the world. My stomach lurches and my heart hammers at the thought - the idea - that I am in a plastic bubble of a dream, that something has coated all of me and stopped me from touching the world around me.

I glance at a text.

_ How are you?  _

It’s Roman, an old college friend. He asks so nonchalantly, as if we didn’t spend the last six months not speaking to each other, too busy for our friendship. 

He is always too busy for me.

I put the phone down, and after a second pick it back up. The text stares at me in the dim lighting of my room, the letters a stark contrast to the background of the phone. Three simple words. 

_ How are you?  _

I wonder how to answer. I drift away from myself and watch my hands type out that I’m doing fine, everything is fine. I am sinking through the walls of my house, through the wires and pipes and dirt around it, dreaming of a day when I won’t feel like I need to escape simple questions. 

I watch as my phone lights up again. 

_ You sure everything is okay?  _

I feel furious towards myself, towards my previous message. I return to my body, to my shaking hands, and find that I’ve dropped the phone on the bed. 

“He sees right through me.” I whisper. “He knows.” 

_ I heard from your sister you’ve been in therapy and I just want you to know you can talk to me any time. Okay Verge? _

I shake my head, body shaking. I suddenly feel as if I’m about to vomit. I grip my pillow in my hands and hold it under my eyes, crying as quietly as I can. A second later, I feel like I’ve woken up again, my mind drifting to and from my body, in and out of reality, as if I’ve escaped the things around me and the time they’ve stolen. 

“No.” I whisper. I begin to rock back and forth, shaking my head. “No. I can’t.”

  
  


\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

_ Session Notes 7/30/2018: I discussed with Virgil that his treatment could not continue if he was not cooperative. Patient still has not discussed openly his trauma mentioned in hospital report. Seems to drift in and out of reality. Quote, “I’ve gone mad.” Severe dissociative symptoms persist, as well as new/worsening levels of depression and anxiety. Breathing techniques taught to patient in order to help calm his anxieties. Possible DPDR. Likely PTSD. Possible mood disorder. Probable anxiety disorder. _

  
  


\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
  


“...and that’s why, I don’t know, I just need to be there for them. I have to do it because it seems like no one else is doing it. I guess.” I watch as Patrick sits back in his chair, a box of tissues on his knee. I notice that this is the third time in a row he’s cried about something in his life. I feel my guts twist, noticing the ease with which he tells his story. 

It seems that everyone in here can talk except for me.

“Well, Patton,” Rob sighs slightly and shakes his head. “It seems to me that you’re more than a bit codependent. Do you know what that means?”

Patton? I almost laugh; I’ve been calling him Patrick and he hasn’t corrected me.

“That I need to make other people happy to be happy?” Patton sniffs, bringing another tissue to his eyes. 

“Yes, that’s exactly right.” Rob smiles. “That’s exactly right.”

Three people have graduated from our group since I’ve been here. I wonder how they did it. I wonder how Rob decided that they’d been here long enough, or what saying enough looked like.

Patton and Rob continue to talk, but I’m not listening. I’m noticing that Logan has been fidgeting with his fingernails the entire time we’ve been in group, and now he’s trying to make one stop bleeding by pressing it to his jeans. He is far too polite to ask for Patton’s tissues. 

“Virgil?”

I snap to attention. 

“Would you like to go next? Remember what we talked about?” Rob is looking at me more sternly than usual, his friendly nature gone. I suppose this is what happens when you pay for sessions and then sit in silence.

I take a deep breath. I nod. “I’ll try.”  _ I’m not ready to stop trying just yet. _

“What’s going on with you?” 

I take a deep breath. “I went through a lot in my life. But. I don’t know. I kind of just… I don’t know. I lost it.” 

“What did you lose?” Rob is relentless. 

I watch as Patton places the tissues back on the small table in the center of us. I take a deep, shuddering breath. 

“My mind.” 

  
  


\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
  


_ Roman and a young man are walking along a bridge. Roman is talking now and then, glancing at his a little too much. He pretends he doesn’t notice.  _

_ They come to the bridge itself and look out over the railroad tracks. The young man leans on the snow, carving out a little face. The face frowns back at him, and he brushes it away.  _

_ Suddenly Roman’s arms are around him. He feels warm, and he has a good strong hug. The young man wants so much to collapse into him, to fall into the hug, but he can’t. He stiffens against him. He does not hug him back.  _

_ Roman pulls away. He looks the young man up and down, a strange look on his face. He chews on a word for a minute, swallows it, and looks away, down the railroad tracks, across the snow. “I’m sorry that that happened, Virgil. I’m sorry that I didn’t see the signs. I’m sorry that I didn’t know that - that things were so wrong. I’m…”  _

_ He stops, looks at the young man again.  _

_ “I’m sorry that I let you down.”  _

  
  


\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

“What does it feel like, to lose your mind?” 

I laugh, unexpectedly. I shrug. “Like I don’t know when I’m awake or when I’m asleep. Like I’m in a dream that I can’t seem to wake up from.”   
“Like you can’t face reality?” 

I nod. 

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

_ A teenage boy is having fun drawing gently on his arm, making small pencil trails and swirls in his skin. They show up a moment and then fade away, leaving room for a new design. He knows his mother will ask why he’s been scratching himself, but it doesn’t hurt to draw on his forearm; his skin is just sensitive.  _

_ In the next room, he can hear his girlfriend screaming at her parents, and them screaming back at her. He pulls his sleeve down his arm again, putting the pencil back on the desk. He shudders at the image that his girlfriend has pulled up on the family computer; he doesn’t like pornography. He doesn’t like that she keeps asking him to watch it. He doesn’t like the comparisons she makes to it when they have sex, or how much she seems to want sex. He likes sex, but it seems that sex with her comes at a price.  _

_ He turns and smiles at her as she walks in the room, trying to be the thing in the house that makes her smile. She sits on his lap, kisses him, and begins to run her hands up his chest.  _

_ “I love you.” She whispers.  _

_ “I love you too.” He responds. Automatic. _

_ Behind him, she turns on the next pornography video. She pulls him onto the bed and lays him down, beginning to kiss his neck. He drifts away, watches what she does from the ceiling.  _

_ He does not know how to say no. _

_ He does not believe he is allowed to. _

  
  


\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
  


I glance around the group, heart pounding. Everyone is staring at me. I look at the ground. 

“You can keep talking, Virgil. It’s okay. We’re not going to judge you.” Rob says quietly. He is looking me right in the eye, and I can’t stand it. I look outside. 

“Do you want to keep talking?” Rob asks.

I nod. “Yeah.” 

My brain drifts in and out of my body, and I wonder if I’m crying or if I just feel like I’m about to. 

  
  
  


\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
  


_ A young man is pulled, with force, from a bridge. The bridge is not high enough for a death, but it’s the thought that causes Roman to pull him away. He cries and shakes his fists and tries to escape, to do something drastic to himself that he will regret.  _

_ But Roman won’t let go.  _

_ “It’s okay, Virgil. It’s okay. We’re going back to the dorm. It’s okay.”  _

_ The young man is shaking, but allows Roman to begin to walk him back down the road towards the college nearby. He has never felt so alone.  _

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
  


“What brought you here, to this program?”

My knee is shaking, my legs are shaking. I can’t look at anyone. I stammer something about going to the hospital. I mention that I feel like I’ve gone mad, and how fucking stupid that is. I feel like my body is screaming, and I can’t float away from where I am. 

“Why did you go to the hospital?” 

A robot has learned to speak for me. It says that I was attacked in an alleyway. It describes something unspeakable. It says that I think I have PTSD, but I’m not sure. It says sorry for crying so much. 

“It’s okay to cry, Verge. It’s a natural human response.” Logan’s voice is drifting near me, as I begin to paw at the hem of my sweatshirt. “Everyone cries. Even I find that my eyes will become unwillingly tearful during times of intense emotional distress.” 

I feel my head shake. Suddenly, the chair around me is too close. The lines in the denim on my jeans are magnified. I can see every thread, I can see every groove in my fingers and every piece of skin I’ve torn from my fingernails. I can feel my throat vibrating with sobs; something is crawling out of my mouth, throwing itself onto the people around me. Someone - Patton, I think - asks me for permission to touch. I, surprised at myself, give it to him, and sink into his cotton shirt and grey cardigan. 

My voice, mine again, asks, “Why don’t you wear your cardigan like a jacket? Why is it around your shoulders?” 

Patton shrugs, and for some reason I cannot articulate, a laugh gurgles up my throat and into the room. Everyone is laughing with me, and then we die down again. 

“Virgil… you’ve dealt with a lot in your life.” 

I look at Rob and nod, still holding Patton tightly. 

“Do you want to get better?” 

I think for a moment. I wonder about all the words I haven’t said, all the things I can’t believe. I blink back more tears, but they come anyway. The thing that speaks for me is no longer in control of my mouth, and I find myself saying, with sincerity, “Yes.” 

  
  


\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
  


_ A young man finds himself sitting on a balcony, legs dangling over the edge. He’s on the second story of a short apartment building, dangling a cigarette between his fingers, wondering at the soreness in his throat. He thought he would try it, just this once. He thought it would help the anxiety.  _

_ He looks out across the parking lot, at the slowly rising sun, and realizes he’s been awake all night again. _

_ He pulls his phone out of his pocket and takes another drag from his cigarette, slowly, trying to get a handle on the nervous energy coursing through his body. He flicks the cigarette unceremoniously into the parking lot and looks at the photo on his phone he’s stopped at - two best friends, one laughing and one making a face at the camera, loving each other just as they were then. _

_ He locks the phone and sets it next to him, starting to shiver. He does not go inside for several more minutes. Instead he lights up another cigarette and takes a slow inhale.  _

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
  


“Hello?”

“Hey, Roman?” I find myself tapping my foot, nervously, and stare out the windshield of my car. “Long time, no talk?” 

“Hey! Virgil! Oh my gosh, how are you? How have you been? I feel like you’ve been on my mind lately, and I just, you know, how are you? I’ve been doing so much, I’m so sorry I haven’t checked in…”

I continue to listen to him ramble, wondering if my eyes are still red. I wonder if it matters. 

“Do you want to get lunch sometime?” I ask, fiddling with my keys, waiting. 

“Oh, heck yes. When is good?” 

“Uh…” I look at the clock in the car and shrug. “Uh…”

“Is today okay?” I can hear the excitement in Roman’s voice, and something about it feels off. I nod, but then remember he cannot see me.

“Yeah.” I smile, something I didn’t know today still had. “Yeah, today’s fine. Where do you wanna eat?”

  
  


\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
  


Session notes 8/22/2018: Virgil opened up in therapy today. Has an extensive history of trauma. I will be having him meet with a psychiatrist soon to discuss options for medication and official diagnosis. Patient seems to still be withdrawn, anxious. Spoke today of hope. Further therapy recommended, possible combination of group and individual therapy recommended.

Recovery possible. 

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, go hug someone, okay?


End file.
